


Twenty-Seven

by astraplain



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 22:37:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4037134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astraplain/pseuds/astraplain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack is gone but Ianto still has work to do</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-Seven

**Author's Note:**

> Posting an older story - this was my first attempt at Torchwood fic

It was the socks that convinced him. Not aliens. Not Owen's acid-laced words of wisdom. Certainly not Gwen's mother-henning or Tosh's sweet but distracted smiles.

Leave it to Jack to run his life even after disappearing without so much as a note. Damn him and his twenty-seven identical pairs of socks.

Twenty-seven. Identical. Pairs of socks.

Ianto abandoned his latest make-work project of examining Jack's clothes for rips and stains, gathering the entire pile - including socks - and stuffing it all into a single drawer. He had to shove a bit to make the drawer close but he managed it.

But now what? The rift had been eerily quiet and, while he wasn't one to beg trouble - relationship with Jack aside - it would be nice to have something to do besides inventory Jack's socks. He could go home, he conceded, knowing that he wouldn't. Not yet. Not when Jack had been gone without a word for six days.

At a loss for what to do with himself, yet not quite able to leave Jack's small haven, Ianto settled onto the bed, stretching out to fill the space that they'd often shared. The bed seemed too large this way and Ianto turned onto his side, closing his eyes and not-quite pressing his nose into Jack's pillow. He'd done that with the coat already and it hadn't made him feel anything but foolish.

No, what he needed was to get some sleep and then get back to work. If there was one thing that Torchwood 3 could never get enough of it was discipline and with Jack gone, it was Ianto's responsibility to make sure the necessary work got done.

Not so different from usual then, Ianto told himself as he drifted off.

It was that same thought that greeted him when he awoke barely three hours later, not really refreshed but definitely more awake.

That's it, he decided. A full day of paperwork, rift willing, and then back to his own flat for the night. If nothing else, it would give him the chance to clear out the fridge before anything mutated.

A quick shower, fresh clothes and a mug of industrial strength coffee before he settled into Jack's chair to attack the piles of paperwork threatening to overtake the desk. Ianto had prepped them as usual with little "sign here" tags and post-it note comments. But now it was him taking that final step and actually signing the things - with an excellent copy of Jack's signature.

Well before the others were due to arrive he'd cleared the desk of all but four folders.

Tapping the first one for a moment, he finally sighed and opened it. Taking up a pen he quickly and decisively scanned the text and made marks in the appropriate places. Twenty minutes later all four employee performance reviews were completed - including his own.

Removing a ledger from the desk he studied the numbers before making a few entries. When he was done he leaned back and smiled. It was a rare and private smile and it transformed Ianto's face, taking away any sign of worry or stress.

Closing the ledger, Ianto stood and stretched. The others would arrive soon and he'd better have the coffee ready or they'd get nothing done all morning. He returned the ledger to the drawer and left the office. 

It was two weeks later - when they'd all more or less settled into something like a routine - that Ianto had reason to smile that rare smile again.

He distributed paychecks along with the rest of the post and went about his duties as usual. It was only when everyone else had gone for the night and he was left to tidy up that he allowed himself a moment of indulgence.

Slicing open his pay envelope, he took out the direct deposit stub and admired the number on the bottom line. He'd arranged an increase for the others, of course, but for himself he'd included a bonus – he had been acting as a field agent after all. New suits and a nicer address would be welcome, but it was the two digits at the end that made him smile – 27. For Jack.

::end::


End file.
